In My Room

As during every sunny day in southern California, I was reluctant to go inside for anything. The sun was shining brightly, the blue sky seemed to stretch on for miles, and the temperature of the water in the pool was perfect. But the third time my mother screeched at me to go inside and clean my room, I figured I should take heed before she really got mad.

Okay, so I'm 22, and I still live at home. There's a perfectly good excuse, really. I go to UCLA, when I think about it. No classes during the summer, thank God, but during the fall, even, I had a problem making my body and the school be in the same place at the same time. Oh, don't get me wrong, I loved my studies there. But sometimes the partying and social activities took precedence over classes. Another reason I still live at home: my mother hopes against hope that she will somehow manage to motivate me to attend classes once in awhile. Good luck, Mom. I'm not sure if having chocolate and soda in class everyday would motivate me (although, now I think about it, free money would probably get me there more often...).

The last time my mother hollered at me from the depths of the house, I sighed heavily and gathered up my belongings to take inside and toss down, making a mess somewhere else. I picked up my towel, my suntan lotion, and slid on my flip-flops. My footsteps caused a funny slap-slap-slap sound as I walked, and the fact that I was stomping only made it worse, more like a SLAP-SLAP-SLAP sound. I entered the house through the kitchen, and lazily threw my stuff on the table. I looked at my newly-made mess and shrugged. Might as well leave it there; my mom would just be after me later to pick up anyway.

Halfway down the hall to my room, my flip-flops came off, and at my doorway, my sunglasses were removed and flung on the floor just on the hallway-side of my door. No point in adding things to my mess to clean up. I sighed as though someone had asked me to donate an organ, and looked around, wondering where I should start. I picked up a t-shirt that had been on the floor for God-knows-how-long, and slid it on over my bathing suit. I had every intention of going out again later, regardless of how clean (or unclean) my room or any other part of the house was.

I sighed again, for the benefit of an unseen audience, and sat down on the only part of my bed that wasn't covered with something. I perused my room; it really was a horrendous mess. My only problem was, I didn't know where to start. Deciding to make my bed first (thinking a made-up bed would make the rest of the room look slightly cleaner), I stood up and pulled the sheets, along with everything else, from the mattress. What I saw there made me draw back in complete shock, surprise, and every other word along those lines.

The words "Someone's sleeping in my bed" normally held no relevance to me. However, as I thought of Goldilocks and the three bears, I laughed out loud, and apparently loud enough to awake the man actually sleeping in my bed. He blinked sleepily a few times, rubbed his eyes, stretched, and mumbled, "Come back to bed, Honey."

I had to admit, I thought about it. The man laying in front of me was absolutely gorgeous. Bronze skin, big brown eyes, curly, disheveled hair. His indescribable attraction was, well, indescribable. But more than that, he just sort of put out this glow of...virility, masculinity, yet at the same time (and probably due to his half-awake status) an endearing vulnerability. I was standing over him, seriously contemplating his dreamlike invitation, but I realized he'd just wake up and bolt when he realized I wasn't who he apparently thought I was.

I reached down and shook him gently. "Um, Mister..." He rolled over from his stomach position onto his back, and all at once I realized who this man was, but more importantly, I wondered what in the world he was doing in my bed. I guess it's every girl's dream, but still a surprise.

Antonio Banderas sat up as he awoke, and looked around, confused. "Where am I," he asked in his accented speech. "My God," he said. I looked at him curiously, wondering what he was about to say. "It's a mess in here." I laughed again, both embarrassed, and caught off-guard by his candor.

"Yeah, well, last time I cleaned was during the Reagan administration." He looked at me, seemingly perplexed, though I'm not sure if it was about the Reagan administration, or what he was doing in my room in the first place. "Um, might I ask, what are you doing here? I mean, I don't mind, really, but it's not everyday I find an international movie star in my bed."

He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"Hmmm...well, okay. Would you like to stay awhile? Have something to drink? Lunch?"

He shook his head again. "No, no, thank you. I should probably go. People will wonder where I am." I nodded, admittedly disappointed. He stood up, stretched, and ran his hands through his hair, only succeeding in making it stand nearly on end. However, that did not mar his attractiveness in the least. It rather took my breath away.

"Well, before you go...I don't suppose I could have something to remember you by? It's not likely we'll ever meet, much less like this, again." He smiled modestly, his head going down but his eyes going up in that unique and sexy little way he has.

"And what would you like, an autograph? A picture?" He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, coyly.

"Actually, uh, something a bit more personal..."

"Like...?"

"Well, could I..." I blushed a furious shade of red, but this was a once in a lifetime oppor-tunity, so I blurted out my request all in one breath. "IwaswonderingifmaybeIcouldkissyou?"

While I was still stammering, his face broke out in a huge grin. He bowed slightly, and graciously answered, "I would be honored."

I looked at him for a moment as the color in my face returned to normal. I wasn't sure how to go about this; I'd never kissed a movie star before (contrary to popular belief, not everyone in southern California goes around kissing movie stars, as much as some of us may want to...). I took a step towards him, and him, towards me, and we leaned in at the same time. Our lips met, and though the kiss was over practically as soon as it started (he is a married man, after all), I lost my breath for a moment, and I think my face returned to it's previous scarlet color.

Antonio smiled, bowed to me again, and exited my room. After a few steps down the hall, he turned and came back. He stood in my doorway, surveyed my room, and said, "You need to clean this place up. It's a mess!" With that, he walked off, and I never saw him again.

I tried to tell a few people about my encounter, but no one believed me. Well, one person...from that point on, my mother said I had to have met Antonio. Look how clean my room always is.